Of Legends
by SolarisAce
Summary: The Dragonborn is missing, and in his place is a bard obsessed with his legend. And he meets the vampire daughter of an egotistical warlord, who has a dark plan. The bard must write his own tale and dig up the legends of the Dragonborn-but they may be closer than anyone suspects. OC / Serana Fanfic, rated M for language, violence and suggestive situations.
1. Prologue

Four years ago, the World-Eater himself was defeated at the hands of the last Dragonborn who became known as the greatest hero of this era; a song was dedicated to him: "Tale of the Tongues". And yet, though he was revered by many in Skyrim, he was hated by countless more; mere months after Alduin's demise, he vanished without a trace.

Rumors abound as to what became of him: some say he died, lost in the wilds of Skyrim—the rumor in itself is an absurd prospect. Others say he left the province for Morrowind, High Rock, or Hammerfell—perhaps even Solstheim to live among the Skaal. Still others say he wanders Skyrim under an entirely different name, weary of a world that no longer makes sense of him.

Whatever rumors may entertain, one thing is certain: the Dragonborn has not been seen in over four years now. His name and title are remembered, but his face has been forgotten by all…save for those who knew him best.

My name is Snorri…I'm a bard.

For the few years since the Dragonborn disappeared, I've been wandering Skyrim and gathering together tales of his lesser known acts and taking measure of the land. Everyone knows of his defeating Alduin, but what they seem to forget is that he was a mortal man. He was never a god, nor had he considered himself akin to one.

Those who revere him have called him the Hero, the Intrepid, the chosen of Akatosh, and the Champion of all Mortals. Those who hate him have called him the Murderer, the Traitor, the Mongrel, and the Bootlicker. Everyone knows him as the Shadow…

It was by his sword that the civil war here in Skyrim ended, and Ulfric Stormcloak lay dead when the Dragonborn pierced his heart. The Stormcloaks that survived have called him the "Bane of Skyrim" and accused him of keeping Skyrim under the oppression of a dying Empire and the elves.

The full truth is somewhere in the middle, and probably closer than anyone suspects.

Tharsten the Exile…Dragonborn, Arch-mage, Nightingale… Titles are titles, but the man himself is a different story. I wish to record his smaller acts, lest they be eclipsed by his legend.

I shall follow his deeds to tell the story of _who_ he was…


	2. Chapter 01: Enter the Bard

"_Alduin's wings, they did darken the sky.  
His roar fury's fire, and his scales sharpened scythes.  
Men ran and they cowered, and they fought and they died.  
They burned and they bled, as they issued their cries…_

"_We need saviors to free us, from Alduin's rage.  
Heroes on the field, of this new war to wage.  
And if Alduin wins, man is gone from this world.  
Lost in the shadow, of the black wings unfurled…_

"_But then came the Tongues, on that terrible day.  
Steadfast as winter, they entered the fray.  
And all heard the music, of Alduin's doom.  
The sweet song of Skyrim, sky-shattering __Thu'um__…_

"_And so the Tongues freed us, from Alduin's rage.  
Gave the gift of the Voice, ushered in a new Age.  
If Alduin is eternal, then eternity's done.  
For his story is over and the dragons are gone." _

Snorri put down his lute after finishing his recital of the song, a wave of weariness crashing over him. He lost the strength to keep up his breathy singing voice, having performed for two hours on end to a very small audience. By contrast, his normal voice was a high baritone with a distinctive rumble to it.

He regarded his audience: the high elf—or Altmer—Taarie and her sister, Beirand the smith, and a few people from the Bard's College in Solitude.

Business had been slow for the Winking Skeever this evening—he was not sure what kept everyone at home after a hard day's work. Reminiscing of a missing hero, perhaps? Indeed, the Dragonborn had been Thane of this Hold—in fact, he had been Thane in most of the Holds—and his disappearance seemed to have taken the life in this city with him.

The closest analogy Snorri could come up with was the safety of a quilt—shelter from the cold weather in Skyrim. When the Dragonborn disappeared, it was like this blanket was tugged off of Solitude, leaving them to deal with the frigid, harsh reality.

Strangely, there wasn't a single person who knew where or why he went and this came as an unusual sense of comfort for Snorri. True, no one knew of the Dragonborn but it also meant the Dragonborn was doing what he did best by remaining a shadow. It would be a disappointment if he didn't live up to his reputation.

His acts in this hold had been many: eliminating a nearby vampire lair, according to the court wizard (who, for some weird reason, would not stop staring at Snorri), clearing out several bandit camps, and even stopping the resurrection of the _Wolf Queen_, of all people! Snorri would have to remember to compose a poem of these exploits.

Snorri had been renting a room for the past couple of days as he visited Solitude, asking around about how people knew the Dragonborn and their thoughts about him. This being Solitude—the head of Imperial power in Skyrim—many looked upon him favorably. Taarie had apparently held a brief crush on him—unrequited, though—and still thought of him as a friend and a great customer. Snorri was…"persuaded" to buy from Radiant Raiment due to his curiosity.

Getting tired of it and deciding it best to leave town, Snorri got up and packed his things. His lute followed an old six-course design, and was specially crafted with a narrower neck to accommodate his short and strong fingers. The body was also specially designed with a more mellow sound in mind—it was larger than a typical lute.

That was when he heard the fighting going on outside.

Warily, Snorri got on at least a Chitin chestplate—lighter than pottery, but harder than any mudcrab's shell and at least as strong as Elven armor. The dark elves—or Dunmer, as they prefer to be called—knew how to make good armor. He had gotten this particular set during a trip to Solstheim. Snorri made sure he still had his Elven dagger fastened to the sheath on his waist, and set outside for the ever-so-charming night of Skyrim.

Nighttime was a safe haven for any thief or assassin—a tool of sorts for any who practiced the art of shadow, like the Dragonborn or even Snorri himself. Such a claim could not be made now: vampires were attacking openly in the streets while guards fought valiantly to stop them. There was a single person—an Orc, in fact—clad in an outlandish armor with an unusually designed axe in hand and a crossbow, of all things, slung across his back.

Whereas the city guards were caught off balance, the Orc did not back down in the face of vampire attacks or thralls. Numbers did not favor him, so Snorri elected to pick off the distracted vampires and thralls while their attention was not on him. Instincts took over, and he moved fluidly towards the thrall closest to him—dagger was planted firmly into the heart, and Snorri moved to his next target and stabbed yet again before the thrall's body could even come to rest on the stone ground.

It was there, after the dagger found passage into the next vampire's heart, that the others took notice and were forced to divide their attention. Panic could be seen in the closest vampire's eyes and he didn't bother attempting to drain the life from Snorri, instead swinging his sword in an uncoordinated mess that Snorri sidestepped with grace.

Wasting no time, Snorri used that movement to decorate the vampire's neck with a deep cut that barely bled. The confusion was enough to allow for a stab straight to the back—the vampire fell over, truly dead.

The Orc was unlucky enough to stumble onto his rump, allowing more than enough time for a killing strike by the final vampire…

But it never came…

The vampire was interrupted by a chokehold—victim of his overconfidence in his comrades; he stood dumbfounded as to how a mere mortal could manage it all. Snorri, with a grin as wide a slow ballad, broke the vampire's neck with minor effort. The fall followed the sickening crack, the body gave an audible thud against stone, and the night was silent.

As it should be…

This had not been a Pyrrhic victory. Surrounded by the bodies of vampires and thralls, and a few very unfortunate city guards, Snorri offered a hand to help the Orc up. Luckily, the area was free of bystanders…

"Rotten luck, huh?" Snorri asked. "To fall down like that was bad luck—you were handling yourself quite well before that, stranger."

It was difficult to make out the Orc's features in the darkness, but Snorri could make out the grey-white hair gathered in a ponytail. The armor was reminiscent of the light armor used by the Knights of the Nine in the Third Era. The patterning was far different though, and seemed composed of leather overall as opposed to cloth over chainmail.

"But I was lucky enough it didn't get worse," the Orc said. "Nice armor…you with the Morag Tong?"

"No…but I met a few of their members in my travels," Snorri answered. "I'm a traveling bard—the name is Snorri."

"Durak…" the Orc introduced himself.

"Well then, Durak, I say we leave this mess…" Snorri gestured around him, "to the city watch—you must be dying for a drink after all this."

"Sounds like a good idea," Durak said.

"Alright, I'll get us a round, and then we can talk…"

* * *

**Author's note: Snorri's lute is supposed to be reminiscent more of a guitar than an actual lute. However, since there is no such thing as a guitar in the Elder Scrolls universe (to my knowledge), I've decided to pass off Snorri's instrument as a custom-made lute and as such will be known as his lute.**


	3. Chapter 02: The Dawnguard

Snorri saw to it that the watch by the main gate knew about what had happened before heading back to the Winking Skeever. Paying around forty Septims, he got both himself and Durak some of the best ale in stock.

He listened, asking about what Durak was doing in town. He'd said he was recruiting for vampire hunters—some group called the Dawnguard had recently established itself in the Rift. They were led by somebody named Isran—a Redguard, if Snorri had to guess.

Then there was some disturbing news: the Hall of the Vigilant had been burned to the ground and most members present were slain by vampires.

Vigilants of Stendarr were a militant order formed after the Oblivion Crisis to combat any threats to the races of Tamriel—specifically, the Daedra. The Dragonborn had been on uneasy terms with the Vigilants, himself having been affiliated with Nocturnal, Meridia, and Azura, and yet still holding respect for the Divines.

Zealous as any worshipper of the Divines can be and more tenacious than trolls in combat, the Vigilants would not have gone down without a fight. Still, the news that vampires had won that fight…

Something was definitely wrong here; vampires typically remained huddled in caves or crypts, independent from other groups. They went out in small numbers to find thralls or cattle to live off of—never in large numbers, let alone numbers large enough to overpower the Vigilants.

Vampire clans were prone to infighting as well, so this organized attack on the hall and brazen attacks in the street—and, if Durak was right, sometimes in broad daylight—struck Snorri as being unusual.

"So, any clues as to what's stirring them all up?" Snorri asked.

"Not even a theory…but, we may have a lead," Durak said after taking a sip from his flagon.

"How so?"

"One of Isran's old comrades from the Vigilants passed me by while I was in Morthal a few days ago," Durak replied. "He said he managed to escape the massacre at the Hall, and that vampires were behind it. When I mentioned the Dawnguard, he seemed to know that Isran was in charge…and where to go."

Snorri pinched the bridge of his nose in deep thought as the buzz from the ale started to set into his mind. He sighed as he tried to piece together the sudden organization and actions of the vampires.

"Do you think he's onto something? Have the Vigilants stumbled upon something that these vampires were after?" Snorri asked.

"Possibly, but we don't even know where to look," Durak replied before firmly setting his flagon down and standing. "I'll need some rest, and then I have to get back to Isran—need to see if there's any news."

"I'm coming with, Durak…"

At his somewhat irritated stare, Snorri chuckled. "I've had too much time on my hands lately—you've already seen what I can do. An outsider may be just what the Dawnguard needs in these times."

"I guess I owe you for your help. Fine…you win," Durak said in faux-irritation. Snorri could make out amusement in the Orc's voice.

Chronicling the Dragonborn's adventures would have to wait for now…

* * *

Crickets chirped and water fell as Snorri and Durak arrived in the canyon where the fort was. The canyon was called Dayspring Canyon, and the fort was quite literally called Fort Dawnguard.

_So Fort Dawnguard houses the _group_ called the Dawnguard—what clever naming. So true to the motif of daylight—and as vapid a motif as they come…_

There was little shade, save for the shadows cast by the fort itself—the canyon itself was wide open, making practically every approach visible to anyone guarding the fort. The only conceivable way anybody was going to sneak in was under cover of fog—darkness alone was not a haven.

_I hate open spaces—so exposed…_

He kept the thought from becoming word, though. Durak led the way up toward the fort, with Snorri in tow—eyes filled with suspicion could be felt on him. The glares were like daggers—but those guarding the fort did not draw their weapons, having seen Durak leading Snorri.

"One would find more welcome from the Ashlanders…" Snorri muttered.

"Everyone's been like that—Isran's orders…" Durak explained. "I'm sure you know that sunlight only really weakens vampire—it doesn't burn them to death. So, newcomers always get this treatment."

"Yeah, but I've never seen a vampire suicidal enough to fight in the daytime."

"Neither have most of us—we couldn't predict that they would try to attack in the day," Durak said. "And yet, they have; everyone's on edge because of it…"

Snorri gave a grunt of understanding and continued following Durak to the gate of the fort, where they were met by a Breton.

"Another recruit, Durak?" he asked.

"More like an associate, um…" Snorri trailed, his tone inquiring for a name.

"Celann," the Breton responded. "Former member of the Vigilants of Stendarr—we've been getting quite a few new recruits lately. Well, if you're here to join us—or just to offer help—head on inside and talk to Isran."

Durak parted the huge double-doors in front of them, giving passage into a large atrium. A farmboy was right next to the door, and jumped when the door opened. In the center was a man in mage robes and a Redguard in heavy Dawnguard armor. Snorri instantly made the connection: Isran.

Isran was an imposing figure with dark skin, shaved head, and a full beard nearly reaching his chest that was as dark as soot; he had cold, calculating grey eyes. More stoic than even the hardiest of Nords or even Orcs, his face betrayed no emotion, and yet seemed to radiate perpetual impatience and frustration.

Snorri overheard the conversation between Isran and the Vigilant, apparently named Tolan. He was a Nord, balding with sandy-looking mutton chops—nowhere near as imposing as Isran. And he was talking about the attack on the Hall of the Vigilant—almost all there had died.

Keeper Carcette was missing and very likely dead as well and a certain Vigilant Adalvald was also missing. There was also something about a crypt but Snorri couldn't make it out before Isran took notice of him.

"Who is this, Durak?" he asked.

"A hell of a…" Durak started.

"I will talk for myself, Durak," Snorri interrupted. "I'm a bard—the name is Snorri. I'm here to offer help."

"Help?" Isran asked. Without waiting for reply, he continued. "I'm afraid a lute is not going to help against vampire, boy. Unless you'd like to sing them all into the ground…"

Snorri felt his hands clench—this man was like a Thalmor justiciar. Quick to dismiss him, to scold—Snorri was tempted to snap at him in spite of his normally cool temper.

_Condescending jackass…_

"He's quite a fighter, sir," Durak defended him. "Found him while looking in Solitude—he killed a thrall and then a vampire before the body could even hit the floor…"

"That…changes things," Isran said. "You know, Durak is not that easy to impress—if he speaks highly of you, you must really know your stuff. As it happens, we have a little problem…"

Clearing his throat, Isran spoke to Tolan, "Go on and tell them what you told me—about the crypt…"

"Yes, Dimhollow Crypt…" Tolan started. "The vampires had talked about it—not too far from where the Hall was. The last time we heard of Vigilant Adalvald, he went off there."

"And let me guess: you believe the vampires that destroyed the Hall found something important, and you want us to find out what it is?" Snorri asked in a deadpan manner, not waiting for an answer. "A crypt filled end-to-end with vampires, draugr, all manner of undead, and traps that would make even the most skilled thief in the Thieves' Guild break down in terror…all by our lonesome…should be fun."

He added a very flippant question: "Anything else?"

"We're wasting time here!" Tolan exclaimed. "I'm going too."

"No," Snorri said plainly. "I work best on my own—last thing I need is an overzealous Vigilant charging into a fray and getting himself killed."

"Damn bard! My brothers and sisters in arms are dead—I plan to avenge them!"

"By charging in and getting yourself killed?" Snorri asked. "Leave this to me and Durak and focus on whatever Isran tells you to do, you stubborn ox..."

Tolan was on the verge of snapping at the insolent bard, but something about him gave his words pause. At a loss for words, Tolan snorted in begrudging agreement…


	4. Chapter 03: Dimhollow Crypt

**Author's Note: I feel it fair to warn you that I will _not_ post beyond chapter five until I find _at least_ ten reviews. Honestly, I want my readers to tell me how they feel about where the story is going...engage with me. **

**The view count, I could care less about. But if my readers express no interest in this, then there is little point in continuing it. Review...short and sweet, or long and detailed...it doesn't matter. What's important is that I hear from _you_, readers.**

* * *

A blizzard set in as Snorri and Durak approached the ruins of the Hall of the Vigilant—a burnt out husk of what it used to be. Bodies of vampires and Vigilants littered the ground, along with a few dog-like creatures he had never seen before—jet-black, cadaverous and without fur, as though only a thin layer of skin covered the underlying bone and muscle, and the dead eyes could have been glowing at some point.

Was this what happened when dogs contracted _Sanguinare Vampiris_? Snorri didn't think it was even _possible_ for animals to contract the disease, considering Molag Bal intended vampirism for the intelligent races of Tamriel.

Like Tolan had said, Keeper Carcette was nowhere to be found—which left Snorri no other choice than to climb in a complete white-out. The husk of the Hall was not going to provide enough shelter, and Snorri left non-essentials back at Fort Dawnguard—_and_ they had never had tools to build a shelter in the first place. But Durak was falling behind.

On the positive side, the sun was still out—but that was hardly going to help against the wind throwing him off balance. Snowflakes pelted his chitin armor and his face, hardly fazing him—he was prepared for several small skirmishes, fitted with an Elven bow, his Elven dagger, and his personal favorite: Squall, a cutlass with lightning enchantments.

Few people in Skyrim use such weapons—cutlasses saw common use in the Third Era in Morrowind, particularly among smugglers and sailors and are now rarely seen outside of Cyrodiil. An antiquated but effective design, it matched Snorri's fighting habits perfectly—longer than a dagger, but short enough to be used in enclosed spaces such as caves (or crypts). It was his mainstay when all subtlety went out the door.

After a climb that felt like a lifetime, he reached the crypt entrance. Dizzy, he fell to his knees once inside as images flashed into his head.

_A stone monolith stood upright before him, having come from the ground by unknown means. Suddenly, the center split open, revealing the monolith's occupant. Snorri caught but a glimpse of the occupant's face, but then the vision ended._

Shaking his head, Snorri wondered what cruel tricks the Daedra or even the Divines were playing on him with this vision. What did this foreshadow? Was that what was in this crypt? In a matter of seconds, the vision he experienced was but a blur in his memory—the only thing Snorri could recall now was the monolith.

Shakily, he got into a crouch and moved slowly, quilted in darkness. His eyes adjusted to see gloom of the cave—enough to make out the shape of one of those mutts in the darkness and two vampires, one of which was exposed by light from a nearby brazier. There was a small basin in the open cave, exposed to the lighting from outdoors through a crack in the ceiling.

Unsheathing his dagger and making sure none of his gear would hit the cave wall, Snorri made his way along the side of the enclosure around the basin to make his way behind the shadowed vampire. A serpent could have made more noise than he did. By the time the vampire had even the slightest feeling of being watched, a knife found passage to her heart and Snorri's hand clamped down on her mouth.

The hound smelled something, and Snorri had to act fast. Using the body as cover, he cast an Invisibility spell and dropped the vampire's body; the other vampire reacted to the noise and moved to check on his comrade.

Needless to say, Snorri was nowhere to be found as the vampire examined his comrade's corpse. Flattened against a nearby cave wall, Snorri drew his bow and nocked an arrow—he took the risk of being seen and allowed the arrow to hit the hound square in the head. This, of course, had the effect of breaking invisibility and the bard stuck out to the vampire like a tavern wench would to a Nord in a blizzard. And like a tavern wench, everyone wanted a piece of him.

"Mortal!" the vampire yelled, seeing Snorri immediately. The latter raised his bow to stop the incoming axe strike, feeling satisfaction over his actions.

Shoving back, Snorri bludgeoned with the bow and again drew his dagger. The enraged vampire didn't even block as Snorri drove the dagger under the jaw and into the brain—instant death. His dagger came out with a _squelch_ as the vampire's limp body landed on that of his comrade.

Could have gone better, but he could not risk that mutt sniffing him out. He also needed to open the gate they were guarding—which would have alerted them regardless. Using Illusion magic yet again, he made himself invisible and proceeded onward.

The vampires complicated their little expedition by awakening the draugr, which tended to win most of the time…even with the hounds at the vampires' disposal. Snorri continued using invisibility to avoid fighting when possible—it was pretty well lit in some areas…for a crypt.

Fights were unavoidable, though…

He reached a door, in front of which was a woman. She was lying down, in a fetal position, and crying. But while the vampires had been clad in old Alessian leather, this woman was in mage robes.

"Keeper Carcette?" Snorri whispered.

"Who…is there?" the woman asked. "Wait, that voice…"

"I'm the bard who came to visit a month ago," Snorri said. "Don't you remember?"

"Snorri…" Carcette trailed. "You shouldn't be here; you need to leave."

"Carcette…" he said, approaching her and placing a hand on her shoulder. "Why don't you look at me?"

Nudging her, he was met by a face with sunken cheeks and glowing embers for eyes, from which tears were flowing.

"By Azura…" he trailed. "What have these bastards done to you?" Though he already knew the answer to that. As a Vigilant of Stendarr, she had been violated in the worst way possible—they had turned her into a vampire.

"Cursed me with a fate worse than death," Carcette answered anyway. "They made me a mockery to the Eight…and already I can feel the hunger rising."

They stared into each other's eyes deeply, hers full of tears and his own with dry sorrow—no tears, as he didn't need to cry to show his pin. He felt her hands feel for his own…felt for the dagger in his hands.

"Snorri…please, kill me," Carcette begged.

"Carcette…there has to be another way," Snorri objected. "There's this man in Morthal…"

"I'm begging you: put me out of this misery!" she begged louder.

"No," Snorri said. "If there's even a chance I can return you to the living, I'm taking it—even if I have to haul you out over my shoulder. There's a wizard in Morthal who can help you…you just have to hold it together until we get there."

Carcette sighed, "You are just like Tharsten was…stubborn as ever. Fine..."

"You're strong, Carcette—you can hold on," Snorri encouraged. "Tharsten is going to be happy to see you alive, too—I know it."

"Help me up," Carcette requested.

Snorri obliged, supporting her by the arm and lifting her to her feet. She was light and cadaverously thin, as though she had been deprived of food for weeks on end—but according to Tolan, the attack on the Hall was only a few days ago.

Keeper Carcette must have been traveling when she was abducted.

Still supporting her, Snorri reached for the nearby door…


	5. Chapter 04: Duel

**Author's Note: Following this chapter, I'll be applying some effort to go over 1500 words each. Chapter five is sitting on my hard drive, and six is in development. Chapter five will surpass 1800 words to compensate for the lack of scene changes in this one.**

**A thanks to Moonflower04 for her reviews so far. With regards to including Keeper Carcette in the story, I wasn't quite satisfied in the game itself that she was confirmed to be dead by word of mouth and yet there was no body. If there's no body, then it opens up possibilities...**

**To a guest: Where Snorri encountered Carcette was directly outside the door to Dimhollow Cavern (the sublocation, not to be confused with "Dimhollow Crypt"). If you played the DLC, then it's where a Frostbite Spider and A Master Vampire are fighting each other.**

**Anyways, enjoy the chapter. And don't forget to review...engage...**

* * *

Snorri was forced to set Keeper Carcette aside once through the door, their trek interrupted by voices ahead.

"I'll never talk!" a voice said.

"Adalvald…" Carcette whispered.

"Perhaps we should cut you, leave you to bleed…maybe even flay you alive," another voice said, this one female. "We'll make you suffer until you tell us all that you know."

As this exchange occurred, Snorri motioned for Carcette to stay back while he checked on what was happening. Creeping slowly to an overlook, he looked through the banister to see Adalvald—stripped down to ragged clothing and bound—being interrogated by two vampires, a man and a woman.

"I've got nothing to say to you, vampire!" the defiant Vigilant spat. "My oath to Stendarr is far greater than any suffering you can inflict on me."

"I believe you, Vigilant," the other vampire said. "And I doubt you even know what you've found here—so go and meet your beloved Stendarr."

Snorri could not even prepare an arrow before the vampire sliced Adalvald's neck faster than his eye could track. Not bothering to clean the blood off , the vampire sheathed the sword and turned to walk past his two walked toward…some kind of tower?

"Are you sure that was wise, Lokil?" the female vampire asked. "He might have still told us something—we haven't gotten anywhere ourselves with…"

"He knew nothing," Lokil interrupted. "He served his purpose by leading us here. Now it is up to us to bring Harkon the prize—and we will not return without it. Vingalmo and Orthjolf will make way for me after this…"

The voices of the vampires faded, but continued to be carried on the cold draft. The rest of it was unimportant garbage. It seemed even vampires had politics of their own.

_I __**hate**__ politics…_

_Easy, Snorri—just keep your mind on the task at hand_, is what the voice of reason in his head told him. Damn, his mind really went on tangents…

Creeping his way back, he motioned for Carcette to follow him once everything was clear.

"Vigilant Adalvald is dead…" Carcette whispered sadly. "I heard him die, and I can smell his blood…"

"Carcette, I know…I'm sorry," Snorri replied. "At least I can get rid of his killer…stay here."

"Wait!" Carcette snapped in a whisper as she gripped his arm tightly. "You can't take them on alone…they'll tear you apart!"

"Not if they don't see me coming," Snorri smirked and winked, gently wiggling free of her hold.

* * *

Something was amiss, and yet Lokil could not smell anything beyond the dead and undead. It was one of those things that could only be felt—someone was watching him, and it wasn't familiar.

He looked behind, and his suspicions rose—the brazier wasn't burning anymore yet the draft in the cavern wasn't all that strong. Someone must have doused it…and it sent that entire corner of the cavern into darkness, opaque and almost ink-like in its ability to conceal.

"We are not alone here," Lokil said.

"You think any Vigilants might have followed us?" his companion asked.

"Look behind us," Lokil told her.

"The brazier…"

"No Vigilant would use any underhanded tactic, however small…" Lokil said. "No Vigilant would stick to shadow. This is someone else entirely…check it."

Reticent as she was, his companion complied with his command and went back across the bridge—darkness enshrouding her as though it were a tangible thing. What would have been several heartbeats later, he saw her emerge and shake her head.

Lokil saw something emerge from the shadows behind her, and he breathed to warn her.

But he was too late…she wasn't even halfway out of the darkness when a hand wrapped around her neck and the sickening thrust of a dagger into flesh could be heard. Her body instantly gave way, and the faint gleam of an Elven dagger could be seen emerging from the back of her head as her body fell face-first to the ground.

The chitin plates covering the assailant's hands faded back into darkness.

"To me!" Lokil called to the thralls on the other end of the cavern, all of whom came running to his aid.

One of the thralls fell dead as two arrows hit—obviously shot at the same time—to both his heart and the center of mass in unison. He fell off the path to the center of the cavern and down into the abyss below. He didn't scream as he fell—there was no life left in his body.

The intruder evidently favored shadow, and must have had a great amount of talent if he could launch two arrows at once…much less aim them at two different spots.

"Is hiding in darkness all you can do? We're no strangers to it!" Lokil taunted his attacker.

"Really?" a raspy reply sounded, impossible to pinpoint in the spacious cavern. The words seemed to surround Lokil, like a stiff gale that threatened to knock him off balance. "Your friend acted like she was blinder than Falmer—she didn't bother to check even the most obvious spots. That's an amateur's mistake…"

"Come and face me!"

An arrow hit the last thrall in the head… "One-on-one…I say odds are fair now."

From the darkness the attacker appeared, stepping over his fellow vampire's corpse. The attacker was clad in chitinous armor used by dark elves, favored by the assassins of the Morag Tong, but the attacker himself was a Nord like Lokil himself. He brandished a cutlass and carried an air of confidence. The tension of the situation would cause anyone's heart to rush…

But Lokil could hear it: the attacker's heart was calm—as if he was at rest. His blood froze over at the prospect of this mortal not being in the least bit intimidated by the situation. Judging by the smirk, the mortal seemed to find the entire situation humorous.

"You wanted a duel?" the attacker asked. "I'm right here…let's dance…"

Baring his fangs and gripping his mace tightly, Lokil charged as the attacker simply stood there with his cutlass outstretched in front of him. Swinging overhead, Lokil brought his mace down on…nothing—the assailant evaded and countered by hamstringing Lokil with the cutlass. The pain of the cut itself was dull thanks to his dead nerves, but the lightning that coursed through his body hurt full force.

Worse still, the injury to his leg made standing straight nearly impossible…

"Your attacks are stiff and predictable," the attacker said.

Lokil simply roared in rage as he charged the attacker yet again, only to be met by the attacker throwing crushed glass into his eyes. Blinded and hearing the sound of a dagger being unsheathed, Lokil swung his mace in an uncoordinated fashion that was stopped limply by the arm of his foe. He felt the serration on the back of the Elven dagger dig into his armor and skin as his opponent gave a sharp tug.

On reflex, Lokil attempted to pull back to keep both feet on the ground, only to have his opponent move closer to him and plant a hand guard firmly under his chin while hooking his leg onto Lokil's own. Off-balance and dazed, Lokil was thrown with surprising force to the ground. The impact jostled his brain around in his skull, made worse by the sharp kick into his side that forced him on his belly.

"Underhanded…" he muttered.

Lokil was grabbed and felt a sharp knee to the lower spine as the attacker caught his head in a lock—no amount of struggling was going to get him free.

"Underhanded? Sure…" the assailant acknowledged.

Lokil heard bones crack, felt his head get yanked, and then nothing…

"But at least I am alive…"

* * *

"It's done," Snorri said once Carcette had followed. "The bastard is dead…"

"If you end up having to kill me…" Carcette started, looking sadder by the second. "At least I'll die with the knowledge that you avenged Adalvald."

"Now, I wonder what this 'prize' he was referring to is…" Snorri mused.

The answer, no doubt, lay at the center of the cavern. The tower they stood upon was intricately carved, with stonework that didn't match that of ancient Nordic. The carvings and stone also did not match any Akaviri designs, and the stonework of the tower was obviously not as old as the rest of Dimhollow Crypt.

Gargoyle statues stood on the other end of the cavern—Adalvald's notes stated that this was the only crypt in Skyrim with such statues.

Something short and sharp stood out on the pedestal in the center of the tower. Snorri's took a closer look, touching the tip and noting that there was some funnel that may have escaped the naked eye. His hand recoiled, barely evading the needle as it shot upwards—it briefly seemed to seek flesh to pierce.

_Something specifically meant to extract blood…but will it take just _any_ blood?_ Snorri mused.

Grinning, he looked over his shoulder to the body on the ground.

"Hey Lokil, care to give me a 'hand'?" he asked.

Horrible puns aside, there was a slight pause after the spike impaled Lokil's hand, and for a moment Snorri was convinced that it wouldn't work. Maybe the blood of a vampire wasn't going to work…

He was startled by stone grinding against stone and the sound of mechanisms moving the nearby braziers, all of which ignited in eerie purple flames. The floor around the pedestal opened up as the pedestal rose to reveal…

…It was the monolith from his vision!

Two tense minutes passed, with Snorri shielding Carcette, and then the monolith snapped open with earth-rumbling sound…

* * *

**AN: Gotta love CQC, where I got the idea that grab attack. Thank you, Metal Gear Solid 3, thank you Motosada Mori for posting the details on how to do the moves, and thank you William Fairbairn for inventing the techniques.**


	6. Chapter 05: Emergence

**Author's note: reuploading this chapter after several edits-blame my editor. Kidding.**

* * *

Though her brain wanted her to believe she had slumbered for mere hours, her body carried the knowledge—the stiffness—that indicated that she had slumbered for years beyond what her mind could count.

Her mind had been suspended in dreams, cocooned independently from her body—it was floating in a sea of illusion for so long that the sudden feeling of throbbing that hit her body so suddenly terrified her.

She felt herself fall and thrust her arms out to catch herself as best as she could against the stone floor; her muscles went from lax to tense as they struggled to regain feeling. Her throat was parched, but she did her best to keep herself from stretching her jaw—she knew she was not alone.

As her eyes adjusted to light again, she could feel the presence of two people in front of her; one alive and the other as herself. As her eyes regained focus, she found herself staring at two pairs of orbs—one pair brown, the other pair glowing like the embers from a fire.

The red pair belonged to a woman—a vampire —who smelled new to vampirism and looked like an unwilling victim to what had befallen her. Her blond hair was bedraggled and unkempt and left grimy from the debris in the crypt; grime and mud covered her hardened facial features.

The other pair of eyes belonged to a man—mortal, likely in his thirties—whose somewhat gentle and narrow features screamed "milk-drinker" to the casual observer yet the armor he wore and the very fact that he stood in this cavern told the woman that he was a veteran adventurer. Sandy brown hair was parted off-center and flowed back; the front and sides were shorter than the back and complemented his stubble nicely. The young man was apparently named Snorri, if the commotion that ensued at the release from her prison was to be believed. Despite his Nordic name, Snorri's features and overall build seemed closer to that of a Breton than to that of a Nord—his ears even seemed a bit tapered compared to your average man.

He was quite a looker, to his credit.

Her sigh elicited a response from the man in the form of a gentle press of his cutlass under her chin…

"Did you have a nice nap?" he asked.

* * *

Everything about the mysterious woman matched the brief glimpse from the vision, which was gradually reentering his mind—everything, save for the fact that she was a vampire. But no one simply stores a mortal in the monolith equivalent of a safe, choked of air and deprived of food or light, so Snorri made the connection.

The blunt end of Squall sat gently under the woman's chin, leaving the two to regard each other for several tense moments. He wondered whether he should kill the vampire right here and now...logic decided against it.

Her skin was fairer than even the palest vampires that Snorri had seen in the past. She had strong facial features that were draped over by raven-colored strands of hair, some locks of which were gathered in braids—emotions already thought of rhymes for her beauty.

"Who…who sent you?" she asked.

"I doubt it's anyone you know," Snorri said. "And, if you were expecting a specific vampire to wake you up—well, let's just say he needed to be retired…"

Her eyes instantly trailed the corpse of Lokil right beside Snorri; her face, though showing familiarity with the late vampire, showed no sense of sorrow or regret.

"Lokil…" she trailed. "So, someone finally got him, huh?"

"Oh? Did you just use the word 'finally'?" Snorri asked. "For being as haughty an ass as he was, I'm surprised no one killed him sooner…"

"Well, no argument there…he was an ass."

"Stand up…" Snorri ordered.

"Okay, okay. Don't worry, I won't bite…" she said, before she realized what she had just implied.

"Let's just be sure about that…" Snorri smugly said, and then his lightheartedness left. "Wait a minute…that's an Elder Scroll…"

"What!?" Carcette snapped. "An Elder Scroll?"

"Where did you get that?" Snorri asked in the darkest manner he could.

"It was given to me for safekeeping," the vampire woman said after seconds of hesitation, standing up slowly. Snorri kept Squall trained under her jaw the entire time.

"Who gave this to you?" Snorri asked.

"My mother…"

Snorri looked deep into her eyes, trying to tell if she was lying or not. Being a bard and—more importantly—a thinker, he had developed keen instincts on whether to accept things as truth or to call them into doubt. This woman was nervous, but that was natural when someone was holding you at the tip of the blade.

Her eye contact wavered, and Snorri had his answer—it was truth. Liars tended to keep eye contact because they were convinced they would come off as truthful—except being stared down came off as…unnatural, inorganic.

"Your mother…" Snorri trailed, lowering the cutlass slightly. "I believe you on that—just don't try anything."

"Look, I was just woken up—I'm probably less aware of what's going on than you are."

"Lokil and his ilk definitely seemed keen on waking you up," Snorri said. "He seemed to need you somehow—but what I can't figure out is why you're so important…unless it isn't you. No, it's got something to do with the Scroll, doesn't it?"

"Look, I can't say anything about it," she said. "Not yet, anyway…"

"So," she started after several beats. "What happens now?"

"Now, we leave," Snorri said plain as day. "We'll be taking you back with us to the Dawnguard—I trust you know who they are?"

"No, but the name speaks for itself…"

"You can't be serious," Carcette interrupted. "You're willing to risk traveling with her—you don't know whether she'll turn on you or not. By the Divines, you don't even know if bloodlust will cause _me_ to attack you…"

"I shouldn't trust _anyone_ who can end up stabbing me in the back…which means I should probably kill everyone I meet," Snorri shot back. "But that's not how I work—this is another chance I need to take as I'm already taking one with you."

"Oh, right…" Snorri said. "If we're going to be traveling together, I'll need a name—I'd prefer not to say 'hey you' or call you 'lady'."

"I'm Serana," the vampire introduced.

"Serana…" Snorri tested. "Let's go, then."

* * *

"Before we go off to the Rift, we'll need to stop by Morthal," Snorri said as he guided the way out of the crypt.

"Why?" Serana asked.

"Well, as I'm sure you've noticed, my friend here," he gestured toward Carcette, "is a vampire—a new and unwilling one, at that. There's a wizard in Morthal who's rumored to have studied all manner of undead—I'm convinced he can help her…"

"Tell me about this…wizard," Carcette said.

"His name is Falion," Snorri said. "The closest thing to a court wizard the Jarl has in Morthal where people are nervous about having _anyone_ who knows magic in town. And his approach to curing vampirism is not the most…ethical."

"How can you know that?" Carcette asked.

"I witnessed it firsthand—the ritual requires a filled Black Soul Gem," Snorri said. "I understand if you're hesitant to rely on this ritual but it's the only option I know of…"

"This Falion sounds a lot like a necromancer…" Serana chimed in inquisitively.

"That's the rumor, in any case," Snorri said. "He _is_ a master at Conjuration, after all…"

* * *

"I should have figured earlier…" a voice trailed as soon as the trio left the cavern and into open air.

"Who's there?" Snorri asked, drawing Squall.

A man in mage robes stepped forward, and removed the hood which concealed the mutton chops and the hard facial features—it was Tolan.

"You followed me?" Snorri asked.

Tolan didn't reply immediately, instead brandishing his warhammer—the circumstances gave him an intimidating presence.

"You must have some powerful Illusion magic to get me to back down," Tolan said. "I figured you had more reason than you let on for going alone, so I followed…"

"You mean you actually used your brain?" Snorri asked. "That's pretty rare for a zealot; I guess I should be proud of you…"

"Wasn't expecting you to have two vampires with you…perfectly alive" Tolan trailed. Anger decorated his face along with distrust. "Are you a thrall? Or are you hiding yourself, vampire?"

_Of course he isn't using his brain…_

"Listen to yourself, Tolan!" Snorri snapped. "You're more paranoid than a Nord from Windhelm. Why don't you take a closer look, you fool—I found your Keeper."

Anger turned to shock when his eyes fixed upon the woman who led the Vigilants of Stendarr in Skyrim.

"Keeper Carcette…you're…" The fires of rage subsided, only to be rekindled upon looking at Serana. "Was it you who did it?"

"Tolan…please, listen to reason," Snorri said. "She is the reason the vampires here have been digging—why they burnt down the Hall… She's obviously very important to them, but she won't tell me why…not until I bring her to the Dawnguard—and no, I won't just beat the information out of her…"

"And Keeper Carcette?" Tolan prompted. "Did this vampire have anything to do with what happened to her?"

"No," Snorri answered. "We just woke her up less than an hour ago; Carcette has been a vampire for a couple of days, at the least. In short, Serana could not have turned Carcette while she was in such a deep slumber—think about that."

"So it has a name…" Tolan trailed. "And what do you plan on doing now?"

"We'll be returning to the fort," Snorri answered. "But not before we go see a wizard in Morthal who may be able to cure Carcette."

"All this sounds…" Tolan trailed. "…like complete bullshit!"

"Vigilant…Tolan…" Carcette stood forward. "Please, stand down…"

* * *

Tolan was caught off guard by the person he's known as his friend and his leader. The fiery eyes were the obvious symptom of what had been done to her—she was made into a monster, one of those she had sworn to fight. And yet, beyond the red iris and deep within her eyes, Tolan swore he saw Carcette speaking from the innermost of her being—the body of a vampire merely covering the person like a coat.

"Keeper…she's one of the creatures we fight…" Tolan said of the remaining vampire, unable to think of a good argument. "And _he_ defends her…I don't trust him."

"I see that…but you trusted me in life," Carcette whispered; she drew her mace, as if to attack, but dropped it into the snow below her. She was leaving her fate in his hands…

"Do you still trust _me_?" she asked him.

Hesitation gripped Tolan as his friend—now a vampire—placed the decision of whether or not she was to die for simply being a vampire upon him. Why? Why were the Eight putting him in this predicament? Why did merciful Stendarr see fit that it all should come to this? Was it a test of faith—to see how far he was willing to go in his oath?

"Don't you dare!" the bard threatened when Tolan raised his warhammer.

"Snorri!" Carcette yelled back. "Let him decide!"

Several tense seconds passed, after which Tolan opened his eyes and brought his hammer down…

No blood decorated the ground where Carcette stood, nor was there a body on the snow…for the hammer had hit nothing but snow, flattening and hardening the white powder beneath it.

If this was all a test to see whether he was willing to kill his own friend, then he had clearly failed. Strangely enough, it didn't feel like a failure…he felt that he may have actually done the right thing.

"Keeper Carcette…" his weary voice trailed. "What should I do?"


	7. Chapter 06: Bloodlust

**Author's note: uploading this chapter after a brief bout of writer's block, pulled out by my editor's advice. Unfortunately, chapters from here on will be a bit more spaced out than normal-college semester is coming up and it takes priority. In the meantime, enjoy.**

* * *

Ultimately, it was decided that Vigilant Tolan would return to Fort Dawnguard with Durak and brief Isran on the situation and prepare them for a "guest" of sorts.

Namely, Serana…

Snorri was taking a big risk traveling with her—and Keeper Carcette, for that matter—but he was a rational experienced bard. The first stop was Morthal to see Falion, and then back to the Fort. On the positive side, it was still light out and the storm had subsided; on the other hand, the trio was on foot and exposed.

Snorri, as usual, was not happy being out in the open without some form of shadow, but it gave him an advantage if either of the vampires turned on him, even if he was out of his element. Serana was taking events in stride and, while irritated over traveling in broad daylight, was surprisingly compliant and light on complaints…like a child staying quiet under her mother's glare.

Carcette, on the other hand, was having a terrible time keeping up and was dragging her feet through the snow as they descended the mountain. Snorri ended up going back to keep her on her feet. It was apparent that she had not been exposed to the sun since she was turned and it was made worse by her refusing to drink blood.

They were barely to the Hold's wetlands when Carcette collapsed. Propping her against a tree, Snorri tried to see what was wrong while Serana could only watch.

* * *

The vampire saw concern on the bard's face for his friend, Keeper Carcette but she knew the facts: the woman was losing her battle with the bloodlust.

Carcette seemed aware of this fact as she tried to convince Snorri to leave her behind.

"I can't go further," she said. "I know myself…I can't be someone else's burden."

"Just hold on, Carcette," he reassured. "Morthal is less than a mile away; you can make that…"

Carcette smiled sadly and shook her head, "You don't understand, Snorri…I feel the hunger rising. Even if I made it…"

Comprehension lit Snorri's face as he rubbed his fingers across his neck, feeling his pulse. "I understand…let me help you."

Serana watched as he unfastened the gauntlets he wore, exposing skin as he drew a dagger. Looking on, Carcette saw what he attempted and tried her best to squirm away, frightened of what she might do…

"Snorri, please don't…" she begged briskly.

"It's me or some bystander in Morthal," Snorri said. He tugged on a chain around his neck, exposing an amulet—Serana could feel the enchantments on it. "Besides," Snorri said. "I'm protected…"

"Snorri, no…forget it," Carcette trailed. "Just forget it…I might kill you."

"Yeah? Maybe I don't care…" Snorri replied. "I just don't give a damn about what _might_ happen. If you head into town in your state, what _will_ happen is you'll lose control and kill someone else and get us all put to death—Serana will be discovered no matter how well she hides, and I'll be suspected to be a thrall."

Serana had to hand it to Snorri: he had quite a talent for meticulous planning and foresight. The difference between him and most Nords was far more than simply skin-deep. The Vigilant they had met outside her prison exemplified what your average Nord was: brash, proud, and very direct. Snorri was well aware of his competence, yet had a sense of humility and relied on critical thought and subtlety.

Snorri's argument had merit: most vampires—even if they weren't trained in Illusion magic—had at least rudimentary Illusion powers. Serana was equal parts Destruction mage and Necromancer—her knowledge of Illusion may as well not have existed. If Carcette lost control, people may suspect that she wasn't the only vampire around…they would grow suspicious, and Serana would be next.

Serana could see the wisdom in Snorri's move, but then again Snorri was traveling with _two_ vampires…albeit in direct sunlight. He had the advantage in sunlight, even though it was clearly not his favorite time of day.

She heard fangs sink into flesh, interrupting her thought process. She smelled blood before that, along with quicksilver from the Elven dagger Snorri carried—Serana's own hunger was rising. But, having been a vampire for as long as she had, she had learned to control her instincts—she wasn't controlled _by_ them. She dared to look, and saw the inner conflict present on Carcette's face as she drank from Snorri's arm.

Shut eyes and calm breathing indicated contentment with the blood, but it was a stark contrast to the tears running down her cheeks. She wasn't sure whether to feel pleasure or guilt at what she was doing, and Snorri's expression was one of indifference—a blank slate, unreadable even by a master manipulator.

"Alright, Carcette…that's enough," he said.

Except that she didn't stop, and a chill ran down Serana's spine; she knew exactly what was happening. Carcette seem enthralled…entranced by the blood, to the point where she was unwilling to part with the arm for even a moment.

Snorri noticed because as he tried to pry her off, Carcette seemed to frenzy and siphon even harder. Every second that passed, Snorri seemed to become more sluggish.

"That's enough!" Serana yelled and moved briskly behind Carcette and planted a firm hand on Snorri's arm, tugging on Carcette in the process. It did little to stop the siphon and, within seconds, Snorri faded from blood loss.

"Carcette! STOP!" Serana yelled as her fist connected with the side of the frenzied vampire's forehead, knocking her senseless. Carcette's jaw muscles went lax and her fangs slipped out of Snorri's skin.

Dazed, Carcette shook to clear the haze from her eyes. The mist left her vision as she blinked over and over, struggling to regain focus. The hunger she had felt for so long faded, leaving only worry. What had she just done?

Carcette focused her eyes to see that her worries had been justified. Snorri was on the ground motionless and bleeding profusely from his forearm.

"Is he?..." Carcette started.

"He's alive," Serana said. "Barely…"

"Divines…" Carcette trailed.

Serana tried to feel Snorri for heat, but she gave off no heat of her own. But as best as she could tell, Snorri wasn't going cold.

_Stupid…_ she thought of herself and of Snorri.

It was as she touched him that Serana noticed something unusual—his features felt…different than they looked. She frowned in confusion—his face as a whole should have felt narrower, his chin should not have felt like it was jutting, his cheeks did not look all that deep, and his nose looked tilted upwards but felt like it should have been straight.

Who _was_ this man?

"Interesting…" Serana muttered under her breath.

The air behind her shifted as Carcette moved closer to her.

"How are you with Restoration?" Serana asked.

"I'm no master," Carcette replied, her hand giving off the telltale golden glow of a readied healing spell. "But I should be able to provide some healing."

* * *

Snorri awoke an hour later, just hours before sundown. The world felt like it was rocking underneath his body—he could hardly keep his head straight. He felt one lung short of a proper breath. As hard as he tried, Snorri couldn't take a deep breath.

He felt cold, and it had nothing to do with the air around him. The chill came from his marrow as it struggled to make up for lost blood.

He needed water, and a lot of it.

As much as he willed them to, Snorri's arms refused to move. He grunted, gaining the attention of the women nearby. Serana was the first one to grace his vision, the clash of raven hair and snow-white skin sending lightning through his body, causing him to snap to full awareness.

"You're awake," Serana stated simply.

"You're statement of the obvious is most…charming," Snorri muttered.

"I call things like I see them…"

"I'm carrying waterskins, but my body is…shall we say, on strike," Snorri said. "Would you kindly get me some water? Maybe even a potion or two…"

"You're asking a vampire for help?" Serana asked incredulously, a chuckle finding a way into her voice.

"Hey, I was out…and you didn't leave me for dead or suck me dry. That counts for something, right?"

"Leave you to die and lose my tour guide?" Serana asked with a half smile.

"I must be a pretty bad tour guide to be lying down on the job…now can you please help me?"

"Only because you begged so nicely…" she trailed.

Getting the skins off of Snorri's person was a little dicey, as Serana had to force him to sit up and had to lift his arm to get the rope past his head. Like a desperate alcoholic—he downed that water as if it were mead or gin. It was what his entire world revolved around in that instance.

He wasn't keen on the bitter taste of his self-brewed healing potions, but it really helped his body's stamina. Heat flushed into his limbs as they finally decided to respond to his mind's commands.

With Snorri's potions, one didn't need to take a dip in cold water to wake up. He snatched up a stamina potion, and another, and one after that, too. After which he looked no worse for wear.

"Snorri?" Carcette's voice said.

He looked over to where she sat, seeing the normally stern Carcette acting uncharacteristically timid.

"Have a nice meal?" he asked with a chuckle.

Her timid expression turned to one of shock.

"You – you're not furious?" she asked.

"Oh, I'm burning mad like an Atronach," he replied with no change in inflection. "I might burn a random village to the ground just because I'm in such a bad mood…"

_Lub-dub, lub-dub_ his heart went as absolutely no words were exchanged. Serana was unreadable, and Carcette seemed to be torn over whether he was serious or not.

"That was a joke…" he trailed. "I know you wouldn't have chosen to do that."

"Anyways," he continued, "if you're done snacking, I say we get to Morthal and get you cured."


	8. Chapter 07: Interlude--Morthal

**A/N: I'm alive, so you all know. I'm just swamped with college classes this semester; I've hardly had time to put anything on my hard drive, much less publish something. Having said that, it needs to be said that this may be the only chapter you be getting until December, at which point the semester will be over.**

**I apologize for dropping that on my followers.**

* * *

**The Blue Palace, Solitude**

One of the nicest perks to living a century and a half as a vampire was that it gave one time to learn how to read others.

Sybille Stentor, however, didn't need to scry Jarl Elisif's mind to know the stress she had been under lately. Jarl Elisif could be informally considered High Queen of Skyrim by virtue of being the late High King Torygg's widow. The Moots that had been convened annually over the past four years didn't come to such an agreement. Elisif had never openly put a vote on herself, nor had anyone else been able to win a majority.

Moots were used if there was no hereditary successor to the high throne of Skyrim, and the High King or Queen was chosen by consensus among the jarls. This pseudo-democratic process opened the path to partisanship, however.

While people that the late Ulfric Stormcloak had placed in leadership in the other Holds—had he won the war, of course—would have likely unanimously elected him as High King, those put in high places by the Empire put the interests of their subjects over Skyrim as a whole.

This suited Sybille just fine, considering how ambitious several of the other Jarls were. She would argue Elisif had the best interests of Skyrim at heart, but Elisif herself had her doubts about reigning. She didn't deny that she could lead her own Hold, but she doubted she could lead the entire province.

Elisif was inexperienced—forced into the role of Jarl of Solitude by the power vacuum left by Ulfric's murder of Torygg. Perhaps it was for the best…

"_Often the people who are forced into circumstances they do not seek are those who are best suited for them. The right man in the wrong situation can make the difference that this world needs."_

The ghost of a smile found its way to Sybille's lips as she remembered the words that Tharsten the Exile had said…mere months before his disappearance. He was always so philosophical…and he was one of the few people she could truly consider a friend.

The irony of his being Dragonborn was not lost to her: to be Dragonborn was to be given great power by the Divines themselves. With that power came responsibility and with it, expectation. Expectation often robbed a person of independence.

Tharsten was an adventurer first and a thief second—he was one of the most independent-minded individuals that Sybille had ever met. And yet, the responsibility of Dragonborn was thrust upon his shoulders.

It was bizarre…people tended to view those with power as having more freedom than everyone else. Such was only the case as long as people remain convinced of that. The truth was that people with power—be they leaders, nobles, or even the Dragonborn himself—are those with the least amount of freedom.

Sybille wasn't exempt from this. Vampirism made her a powerful mage and a shrewd talker, but it wasn't without cost. So long as she remained a vampire, she would never be able to set foot out in the day without feeling weary—she would never be able to hear the sound of the birds singing in the daytime like she used to. Still, there was a cure for her "condition"—she simply hadn't made the choice to pursue it. But at least she _had_ the choice; choice was something that Thartsen had been convinced he lacked.

On the subject of the Dragonborn, Sybille's scrying had revealed one thing about his whereabouts: he was still in Skyrim, and in hiding. She could guess as to why…

At best, being Dragonborn meant that Tharsten's freedom of choice was limited. At worst, free choice was nothing more than an illusion to him. There was no such thing as free choice for Tharsten—only destiny…only fate. And he was a slave to it.

_Tharsten…_ she thought. _Where are you hiding?_

* * *

**Outskirts of Morthal, Hjaalmarch**

All that remained of the sun's influence once the trio reached Morthal were streaks of orange decorating the sky. It was the sun's parting gift for the next several hours, telling the beings living in Skyrim to make like good little children in its absence.

_If only such personification were reality…_ Snorri mused. _Then again, the world would be far too simple…_

The old husk of a burned down house next to the inn still remained after four years, and the town itself hadn't exactly improved in that time. The only official shop belonged to Lami in the center of town—she supplied alchemy ingredients to customers. Then there was the unofficial shop at Falion's house where the reclusive wizard spent almost all his time.

Hjaalmarch was one of the least populous holds in Skyrim, with Morthal and the Stonehills being the only settlements. The lumber and mining businesses manage to keep food on everyone's tables, but people here still struggled to get by. Adventurers, on the other hand, could make a decent living plundering the Nordic ruins dotting the landscape, the biggest of which was Labyrinthian; it easily rivaled the city of Markarth in size.

"Right," Snorri started, "Falion's home is the northernmost house on the boardwalk. I'll get you there, and then we can plan our next move."

"You're not staying?" Carcette asked.

Snorri gave a face that clearly said, _"Are you serious?"_

"I already told you the rumors surrounding this man," Snorri said. "I don't want to stick around his home any longer than I need to—it'll keep people from getting the wrong idea."

It seemed most of the residents had already turned in for the night—almost everyone who was outdoors was part of the town guard. That suited Snorri just fine…grass and dirt were crushed underfoot as he led the women to the boardwalk over the river.

"When all this is taken care of," Snorri started, "meet us at the Moorside Inn."

Three hard knocks on Falion's door later, the Redguard emerged with a nasty look on his face—he looked as though he had eaten something rancid. And on top of it all, he seemed totally unconcerned about the vampires that were present and paid more mind to Snorri specifically.

"Who are you?" the reclusive mage asked.

"Snorri… I passed through a couple years ago. You told me about the Dragonborn's involvement with that 'cursed house' business," Snorri answered. "I'm an adventuring bard…you remember, right?"

Falion gently ran a palm over his face, seemingly deep in thought.

"Hmm…yes, I recall you," he said. "I didn't recognize you in that armor…or without a lute on your back. Why are you in town this time around?"

"Long story…" Snorri trailed. "Mind if we talk inside?"

"Agni is out with Joric at the inn, so sure," Falion replied.

Snorri smiled; Agni was an orphaned girl and an apprentice to Falion. From what little interaction Snorri had seen, Falion was a stern but genuinely caring father-figure. He took care of her and raised her as though she were his own daughter. That wasn't to say they didn't disagree at times; she wanted to attend the Mages' college in Winterhold, but Falion would have none of it. All in all, it was a typical parent-child relationship.

Snorri ushered the women in and was relieved that there were no eyes from the guards in their direction. He really hoped his voice would hold out long enough to tell Falion the story.

* * *

**15 minutes later**

"Hmm…" Falion trailed. "I'd heard that the Hall was attacked; a Vigilant came in town almost a week ago with the news… I believe his name was Tolan. He was talking to an orc, probably part of this 'Dawnguard' you mentioned."

"Yes, well he wasn't the only survivor," Snorri said. "And I use the term loosely…so; here I am with the Keeper of the Vigilants' Skyrim chapter. Can you cure her?"

"I definitely can," Falion said. "But you know what the ritual requires…"

"A filled Black Soul Gem, yes…that's some dirty business."

"Well, you won't need to get involved in it," Falion said. "As it turns out, I have one…someone came to me for a cure, and never showed up at dawn like he should have."

"Alright, what's the cost?" Snorri asked.

"The value of the filled gem? Seven hundred Septims," Falion answered.

Snorri gave a frustrated sigh as he checked his coin bag…eight hundred Septims. That was quite a lot of money…for a bard, that is. One doesn't earn as much singing about adventurers as they would if they did the adventuring.

He had to pull out the silver tongue on this one…

"How does six hundred and a common soul gem sound?" Snorri asked. "I'll even throw in a copy of _Liminal Bridges_ for free next time I'm in town."

When he saw Falion swallow hard, Snorri knew he had him on the hook. The mage was a bookworm—something most Redguards didn't have a reputation for being. On top of that, _Liminal Bridges_ involved Conjuration magics. And it was one of those types of books that were extremely difficult to find in a store; you'd have better luck searching a bandit's personal stash or searching the Forsworn in the Reach.

It was a little-known fact that Falion communed with Daedra at some summoning stones in the swamp. But Snorri knew, and Falion knew that he did. It was blackmail _and_ bribery in one, plain and simple.

"Damn…" Falion muttered. "You must be some bard, Snorri; an underhanded, fame-seeking, sleazy storyteller with nothing better to do than invade everyone else's privacy."

"I try…" Snorri quipped with a grin. "Is there a point you're trying to make?"

Embarrassed that his secret was pretty much out to two complete strangers on account of one bard, Falion shook his head and sighed in exasperation.

"Alright, bard…you win," Falion muttered. "I'll get her taken care of, but she'll need to wait for dawn. You two had better leave before people get 'curious'."

"Agreed," Snorri said.

The Moorside Inn was business as usual—people rarely visited town, so it was empty. Or at least that was what Snorri told Serana.

The only people besides them were the innkeeper and an annoying Orc calling himself a "bard". He would give every bard on Skyrim a bad name; he couldn't rhyme, sing on pitch, or even play a chord on the lute. It was like listening to a cat being strangled.

Snorri took the liberty of "relieving" the Orc of the lute, and played himself…

Serana had little musical knowledge, but she remembered that in better times her family would have the occasional performer sing or play an instrument for entertainment; the performers were innovators of music and the theory behind it. She remembered that she asked one of them—"Guilbert", she believed the name was—about the theory behind his piece.

He called the melancholic tones he used in his pieces "minor tones". Serana remembered this because Snorri seemed to favor minor-sounding chords, and interspersed them with the happier sounding major chords.

"_Music is the voice of the soul,"_ she was once told. It meant that true musician played what they felt—they communicated their cares and burdens through song. The fact that Snorri used more minors than majors in his playing told Serana that there was a great deal of sadness burdening his heart. She wanted to ask him about it, but he didn't know the first thing about her…save for the fact that she was a vampire.

That fact alone gave her pause; vampires were commonly seen as creature of deceit. They coaxed the secrets of mortals' lives and used it for their own ends. Serana never liked to do that, but still…as the saying goes: "A few bad apples spoil the bunch."

Snorri would, for now, remain a mystery to her…


End file.
